


When the Prism Shatters

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Genesis pushes Sephiroth's buttons, Loveless - Freeform, No Slash, and possibly regrets it, favorite colors, killer ferns, mild childhood trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:21:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Favorite colors are both so simple and so complex, as Genesis is well aware, and he is determined to learn what Sephiroth's favorite color is, no matter the cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Prism Shatters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shattered: Act I](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/138975) by ScribeOfRhapsody. 



> Inspired by a rather inconsequential comment ScribeOfRhapsody made as we were discussing the then-in-progress chapter 25 of her ongoing epic AU "Shattered: Act I" and serves as a prequel to that story.

“Angeal, come open the door!” Genesis kicks the toe of his boot against the apartment door with more force than necessary.

“It’s unlocked,” Angeal calls, voice not quite muffled behind the extra layers of soundproofing.

Genesis kicks the door again—harder.

“Really? You have hands, you know.”

“They’re busy.” With his sword and a fern that’s taller than his torso, and he has no intention of putting either down just to open a door. Genesis's head is already craned back as far as it will go to avoid the fronds’ unceasing efforts to stab him in the face, and he’s giving serious consideration to allowing the pot to slip from his fingers. Angeal will kill him, of course, but that’s of little consequence when he’ll get to experience unspeakable joy from watching the delicate root system shatter on the hallway floor.

The steady thud of Angeal’s stride heading towards him puts a stop to any rash decisions.

He’s made it this far. He won’t allow this vicious cluster of vegetation to defeat him—not when he’s so close to freedom.

The door clicks open. “Here.” Genesis shoves the plant forward into where he suspects Angeal’s arms are before pushing past him into the sun-drenched apartment. “Take it away from me before I burn it.”

“Genesis, you shouldn’t have,” says Angeal’s dry voice from within the fern.

“You’re damn right I shouldn’t have,” Genesis agrees, dropping his sword next to Angeal’s Buster in the weapons rack against the wall opposite the floor-to-ceiling windows as he passes it. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s between Angeal’s overstuffed armchair and sofa, one of the few areas not crowded by the plants that cover every moderately flat surface, and uses the space to brush his coat’s sleeves free of dirt and whatever other filth it has deposited on him. Ferns give off spores, don’t they? Disgusting. “I dragged that infernal plant all the way from Gongaga to where I stand at _your_ request, suffering the ridicule of my squad the entire time, I might add. You owe me, Angeal.”

“Believe it or not, I think I can pay you back,” Angeal says as he carries the fern across the room and sets it on his gardening table, all without suffering a single assassination attempt on the plant’s part.

Genesis sneers and shakes his hair out. “Doubtful. I will be calling in favors for months.”

“Perhaps not.” He looks far too pleased with himself as he runs his hand along one of the fronds, and Genesis frowns.

“What?”

“Look on the coffee table.”

Genesis has no idea how a hunk of carved wood and a plant with wide-striped leaves will settle such an abysmal debt between—

He leaps over the back of the chair and scoops up the leather-bound book. Stares at it, disbelieving its existence even though it’s solid and heavy in his palms. He traces his fingertips over the creamy cover with its fading dyed filigree ornaments; the thick stitches around the edges; the bronze metal corners, polished smooth by hours of touch. A sharp breath squeezes between his teeth when the book passes inspection without evidence of damage. “Angeal, where the hell did you find this?”

He laughs. “Thought you might appreciate that.”

“ _Yes_.” Oh, Ifrit, this day—this entire harrowing fortnight—has been redeemed. He tucks his favorite copy of _LOVELESS_ against his chest and extends his free arm palm up as he offers Angeal a formal bow. “ ‘There is no hate, only joy, for you are beloved by the goddess.’ ”

“High praise indeed.”

“Where was it?” Genesis wonders, sinking onto the sofa and closing his eyes as he inhales the faint scent of leather infused with traces of Banora White. Mm, his favorite smell on Gaia. He’ll never let this copy out of his sight again.

“It was in the salad bowl above the stove,” Angeal says, as though this is a reasonable answer.

Genesis opens his eyes. “Your salad bowl is made from Wutai maple—you don’t keep it above the stove.”

“You’re right.”

_LOVELESS_ slams metal corners first into his legs. “Then whose stove would I—oh.” He sprawls back into the cushions, flicking his eyes towards the ceiling as he rubs his stinging skin. “Sephiroth.”

Angeal chuckles without lifting his head from the latest addition to his jungle. “He brought it by last week, since he figured I would see you before he did.”

“But—but why was it in his _salad bowl_?” Genesis lifts _LOVELESS_ to check for blemishes, even though he knows it’s in prime condition. “I didn’t put it there.”

Angeal’s snort is the width of his shoulders. “No, Sephiroth did.”

“He _what_?” he hisses. Everyone in SOLDIER—but Sephiroth in particular—knows better than to so much as exhale on _LOVELESS_ without his consent. To stuff it in a lowly salad bowl is sacrilege. “Blood shall spill before the dawn.”

“Stop being melodramatic. Sephiroth only tucked it away because he knew you’d find a way to blame him if a single crumb landed on it.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed him,” Genesis lies, and knows Angeal knows it’s an untruth, but he’s not about to renounce his statement. Friendships can only extend so far, after all.

“Sure, Gen, whatever you say.”

Genesis considers forming as elaborate a response as possible, but decides he doesn’t have the mental energy to waste on an endeavor that Angeal won’t believe one word of. He is almost as fatigued from hours spent trapped in a cargo plane with a squad of riotous Seconds and Thirds as the entire two-week debacle of a mission, and he finds himself watching Angeal familiarize himself with his new fern through half-closed eyelids as he takes long, slow breaths.

The air in Angeal’s apartment is always thick, almost damp, with fresh oxygen, and even though Genesis isn’t fond of the loamy, salty scent of dirt, he prefers it to the cloying tang of Mako that clings sticky and thick to everything in Midgar and leaves him with a constant discomfort—not a pain so much as a tension—in his sinuses and temples.

Today he finds no relief in the pure air. Over twelve hours have passed since he last engaged in combat, but he’s spent two weeks with his senses tuned to full battle awareness. It’s not something he can turn off at will, even though he knows he’s in the safest place in Midgar.

“How did your mission go?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” he mutters, massaging his forehead. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to have to think, but Angeal’s question provides a single vector for his overtaxed, too-aware brain. Direction, he needs direction, something to focus on. “I swear all Thirds have a death wish—they _refused_ to stop talking.”

“They’re still having problems with that, huh?”

“Yes!” Genesis flings himself upright and has to save _LOVELESS_ from an ugly crash landing on the floor. “What part of _if the Griffons hear us coming, we are dead_ is so hard to grasp?”

Angeal snorts and relocates the fern to a pedestal in the corner next to the kitchen doorway. “You clearly don’t remember what it was like to be a Third. Everyone feels invincible those first few months after receiving the initial Mako injections. That’s why we don’t send them out without Seconds to keep an eye on them.”

“And Firsts to keep an eye on the Seconds.” Scowling, he drops the novel onto the cushion beside him with more force than necessary. “A full half-dozen of the Thirds decided talking was more important than the briefing, so they didn’t even know how to ambush a Griffon—the imbeciles tried rushing the first one we located from the front.”

“Seriously? Did they survive?”

Genesis flops back on the sofa so Angeal won’t be able to see the flush rising up his throat. “Two didn’t.” They might have made it back, if only he’d trusted his instincts, if only he hadn’t hesitated, if only he’d cast faster. What use are his skills if he can’t protect those under his command?

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Angeal says. “It’s never easy being in command of men who die.” He means every word—he always does—but Genesis doesn’t want his empathy.

_Sentiment will be the death of you_.

“Yes, well, it’s their own damn fault,” he snaps. “They were more interested in arguing over what kind of modifications they would make to their uniforms when they achieved First Class than preserving their lives.”

“ _What_?” All sympathy is gone from Angeal’s voice, and Genesis's head twitches off the back of the sofa. “They’re _still_ on about that?”

“It’s all they talked about.”

“Idiots!” Angeal slaps his palm on the table, and the plants clustered on it wave their leaves in protest. “I’m bringing this to Director Lazard’s attention in the morning. I can understand their fascination with the subject, but losing men over an irrelevant discussion is unacceptable.”

Two weeks too late—only time will assuage the hollow ache beneath his lungs. Still, he’s watched too many good SOLDIERs allow themselves to be sucked beneath the quicksand of guilt to permit himself more than a few moments of regret before he marshals his thoughts in another direction.

“A rather large portion of their discussion revolved around you, actually,” he says, latching onto the first topic he stumbles upon.

“Wonderful,” Angeal drawls, sounding like he would rather face a pack of Nibel wolves alone. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Genesis says, even though there is. He traces his fingertip across _LOVELESS_ ’s title, fighting a grin. “The Thirds managed to convince the Seconds into thinking you need to change your uniform.”

“For the love of—” Angeal releases a heavy sigh and glances over his shoulder. “I hope you made it clear that’s none of their business.”

“Of course.” Well, technically he made it clear that he wanted no part in the discussion, period, but he won’t tell Angeal that, and neither will what remains of his squad.

His stomach almost doesn’t twinge when Angeal smiles. “Good. Hopefully this ends soon.”

“Indeed.”

They lapse into silence and minutes pass, marked only by the slow-changing dapples of sunlight and shadow winding over and between furniture and foliage alike as they stalk the day’s end. Genesis tries to empty his mind and relax in the presence of his best friend, but he can’t settle down—the hiss of blood dragging itself through arteries and veins overpowers all other sounds. When he finds himself checking Angeal’s larger plants for any sign of brown or tawny feathers every six seconds, he gives up.

Stimulation. Action. Sensory input. _Anything_.

His gaze snags on the thick weave of Angeal’s shirt. Come to think of it, the standard First uniform _is_ rather drab: dull blue, dull brown, dull black. “If you want my opinion, I think you should consider changing your uniform to something less boring.”

“So I’m boring now, am I?” Angeal asks, without looking away from whatever bloodthirsty, spine-baring ball is holding his attention now.

Well, that was hardly worth it.

“You know that’s not what I said.” He compresses his lips. “You’ve been a First for several years already; don’t you want to change things up? I mean, even Shinra’s _perfect_ SOLDIER Sephiroth went through a wardrobe change after he was promoted to First.”

“A change that had nothing to do with your choice in coat, I’m certain,” Angeal says, voice light.

“It didn’t.”

“Mm-hm.”

Genesis rolls his eyes. Boring, _boring_. “Believe what you will, but we’re talking about your uniform, not mine.”

“Genesis, there’s nothing wrong with my—”

_Tap_. _Tap_.

Genesis tilts his head towards the door. Angeal didn’t mention other visitors.

He pushes himself onto his elbows and meets Angeal’s eyes over the back of the loveseat between them. “Expecting company?” he asks, smirking, but keeps his voice quiet enough that it won’t penetrate the not-quite-SOLDIER-proofed walls.

“No.” Angeal takes one step towards the door, and then stops. “Can you...?” He holds up the prickly urchin he’s in the middle of transplanting.

Genesis is tempted to yell at whoever is behind the door to get lost, less because he wants to socialize and more because it might provoke an interesting reaction from either or both sides of the wall, but the only guaranteed result from that is a lecture courtesy of Angeal, and Genesis isn’t quite that desperate.

So, affecting a world-weary tone, he stands, muttering, “  ‘The wandering soul knows no rest.’  ”

“Says the man who would rather lie on my sofa and nag me about my uniform choices than make himself useful.”

Genesis replies with his middle finger. Angeal’s laughter follows him to the door.

He doesn’t have to put his eye to the peephole to determine who is waiting on the other side—he only knows one person whose heartbeat is as controlled and slow as his breathing.

His lips peel back over his teeth. _To what do we mortals owe the pleasure_? is his first reaction, but at the last moment he reconsiders.

He needs an ally.

“Took you long enough to get here,” he says instead, flinging the door open and dragging Sephiroth into the apartment by his arm; bites back the sting of irritation when Sephiroth keeps his balance with a simple shift of weight. “You need to help me convince Angeal to change his uniform because”— _drab against brilliant leaves_ —“it doesn’t even have any yellow on it!”

Sephiroth extracts his arm in one smooth motion and balances Masamune next to their swords. “I fail to see how that is relevant.”

Genesis rolls his eyes with more motion than necessary. “Because Angeal’s been a First forever now and he’s still wearing the standard uniform. And it has no yellow!”

Sephiroth appears less than impressed. “Why is yellow important?”

“Because—”

“Because”—Angeal turns around, brushing dirt from his fingers—“I made the mistake of telling Genesis that my favorite color was yellow when we were young, and ever since he’s insisted that I need to wear it more.”

“ _More_?” Genesis snorts. “Try _once_. I don’t think you’ve worn yellow since before we left Banora.”

Angeal crosses his arms. “I have, but we’ve been in uniform most of the time since then.”

“Which is why you need to change things up now that you have the opportunity,” Genesis insists.

Sephiroth is looking between them with an arched brow that, for him, is equivalent to a shouted question. He turns to Angeal. “Has he been like this since he returned?”

“ _He_ is right here, you know,” Genesis says, sneering at Sephiroth. Arrogant bastard. “And _he_ is trying to get Angeal to express some creative fashion sense. Standard issue First Class uniforms are so last season.”

Angeal sighs. “I’m afraid he’s been like this his entire life,” he says to Sephiroth, and Genesis opens his mouth to retort— _thanks for existing, Angeal_ —but stills his tongue when Angeal offers him his _relax, I’m kidding_ smile.

Genesis's back muscles are so tight that it takes a concentrated effort to tip his head in acceptance, and he doesn’t feel any better for it. “I still think you should modify your uniform,” he mutters. Petty? Perhaps.

He doesn’t care.

Angeal grunts as he bends down to lift one of his rectangular planters from the sunniest corner of the room. “What changes do you suggest I make, then?” he asks, dropping his shoulder to see around the ornamental grass that’s taller than his head as he carries it to the worktable pushed against the window wall.

Genesis hesitates, caught flat-footed, but Sephiroth is watching him with his ever-present, holier-than-thou _I’m judging you_ smugness, so he blurts out, “Color. You should find some way to set yourself apart with color.”

“  ‘Set myself apart?’  ” Angeal repeats. “When have I ever sought to draw attention to myself?”

“It’s not about seeking attention,” Genesis protests. “Hell, if it was, Sephiroth never would’ve chosen the coat he did.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” Sephiroth says, crossing his arms and turning his attention to the collection of fist-sized pots on Angeal’s bookshelf, which are nestled between framed photos of bright, sun-speckled flowers.

Genesis sighs and leans his hip against the sofa’s armrest. “I’m just saying you should change things up. Perhaps throw a coat into the mix. Weren’t you complaining a few weeks ago that your fan club keeps requesting official photos of you shirtless?” A sound that might be either amused or sympathetic comes from Sephiroth’s direction. “Perhaps a coat will throw them onto a different trail.”

Angeal shakes his head. “I don’t let my fan club influence my decisions. Besides, my fighting style is different from yours—either of yours.” Hands occupied, he points his right elbow at Sephiroth, who has slipped between the vines dangling across the wide doorway leading into the kitchen. “I prefer having my arms free when I fight.”

“  ‘Legend shall speak of sacrifice at world’s end.’ That doesn’t mean you have to stick with the company-provided shirts, you know. There are hundreds of other styles you could choose from.”

Angeal gives him a blank look. “What is the point of looking for different shirts when Shinra provides perfectly functional ones at no extra charge?”

Sephiroth’s words but no Sephiroth exit the kitchen. “The Science Department has put years of research into creating the strongest possible materials for SOLDIER uniforms, so, logically, Angeal is safest if he continues to wear what he always has.”

“You’re not helping,” Genesis hisses, but he’s lost interest in this conversation now, so he groans, flops on the sofa, careful to avoid crushing _LOVELESS_ , and announces, “Fine, stay boring,” to the room at large as he runs his hand through his hair.

“Not everyone is as much of a diva as you are, Gen.”

Genesis opens his mouth to argue the point, but snaps it shut again when he realizes he’s untangling strands of hair that have wrapped themselves around his earring. He grins and tosses his head. “At least I’m never boring to be around.”

“You’re also an easy target.” Sephiroth reappears in the kitchen doorway, but pauses to examine the vine partition instead of walking through it. “Between your hair and your coat, it will be near-impossible for you to hide if you are deployed to Wutai.”

“Says the living monochrome shadow that’s trying to vanish between inadequate strings of verdant,” Genesis retorts, but he sits up, unable to quell the twist in his stomach. “Do you think there’s a chance any of us will be sent to Wutai?”

Angeal sighs and turns around so he can lean against the table. “I don’t know. This stalemate with Wutai has lasted for months now, and that’s with only a quarter of the Firsts and less than half of the Seconds on Wutai land, too.”

“I could have the war wrapped up within a month if Lazard would ever come to his senses and send me over there,” Genesis grumbles, and he believes every word. Wutai didn’t have Shinra’s resources to begin with, and this ongoing war has bled them dry, while, last he checked, SOLDIER recruitment has never been higher. “It is long past time we bring this infernal war to an end, and I too desire to be a hero.”

“And the healer of worlds also, I imagine,” Sephiroth says.

“Of course.” Genesis raises a hand above his head without thinking and lives to regret the movement when his fingers are snared by a vine with dangling tendrils that’s spilling over its designated shelf. Only because Angeal has devoted such time to keeping it alive does he quell the magic sizzling through his blood and, instead of incinerating it, untangles his fingers one by one. Damn plants.

Sephiroth brushes the vines in his path aside with the back of his hand and slips through the doorway. None of the tendrils catch on his hair.

Damn plants that choose favorites.

“You may yet receive an opportunity to earn whatever titles you desire,” Sephiroth says. “President Shinra has informed Director Lazard that he expects SOLDIER to capture Fort Tamblin and place it under Shinra control before the end of the year.”

Genesis has been too busy with other assignments to keep up with the daily changes in the war, but he knows that if they take Fort Tamblin, Wutai will have no choice but to surrender.

“The end of the year?” Angeal asks. “That’s rather abrupt, isn’t it?”

Sephiroth frowns and doesn’t speak right away. “I am more surprised that the war has continued for this long. Shinra could have won several years ago.”

“You think so too?” Angeal brushes his hair back with his forearm as he straightens. “I’ve never gone looking, but I have long suspected there is more going on than we are being told.”

“Of course there is,” Genesis says. “Every war in the history of forever has been fueled by ulterior motives. Why should this one be any different?”

“That’s not what worries me,” Angeal says. “I am more concerned about what it will mean for the future. What types of changes will we see when Wutai inevitably surrenders? What use will there be for thousands of war-trained SOLDIERs?”

Genesis shrugs. “We do more than fight in wars, Angeal. Some of us, if you haven’t noticed, reach First without ever stepping foot on Wutai soil.”

“I—” He pauses and then ducks his chin. “That’s true.”

Sephiroth picks up a pot almost too small for its needle-tipped, pale cactus, before returning it to its spot between two photos of sunflowers. “I know Firsts and Seconds who are still stationed in Wutai that wish to retire from active duty once the war ends.”

“Good point.” Angeal prods the dirt around the base of the tall grass. “I guess I’m having a hard time believing that a war that’s consumed the lives of so many people for the last eight years has the possibility of ending so abruptly. I wonder what the Planet will look like eight years from now.”

Genesis retrieves _LOVELESS_ from beside him, but leaves it closed on his lap. “Unless another nation foolishly decides to pick a fight with Shinra, I can’t see it changing that much.”

“The future is impossible to predict with any accuracy,” Sephiroth murmurs.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say so.” Angeal grins as he selects his largest watering can. “Genesis always knew he would join SOLDIER.”

Genesis rolls his eyes so hard that they burn. “You knew you were joining as well as I did.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” Sephiroth says, because for all his claims that no one can know the future, he does a fine job playing the hypocrite who pretends that he is never surprised by anything.

Leather squeaks and Genesis almost drops _LOVELESS_ when he realizes he’s squeezing it too hard. Back in Midgar for less than an hour and he’s already sick of Sephiroth’s attitude.

But it isn’t worth fighting about, so he allows _LOVELESS_ to open to a page of its choosing, and isn’t surprised when it settles on the first page of act 3.

_My friend, do you fly away now_?

_To a world that abhors you and I_?

_All that awaits you is a sombre morrow_ ,

_No matter where the winds may blow_.

A pleasant warmth wraps soft wings around his chest as the familiar words drift off the page and into the depths of his mind, where they brush aside his frustrations. He has read each page several dozen times—more, he does not doubt—but he will read them again and again, and he will never tire of the way the narrative evokes vibrant, tangible images inside his mind.

Practice allows him to lose himself in the story while remaining sensitive to the actions of those around him; the burble of water dribbling onto soil follows Angeal around as he continues the chore of tending to his plants, while Sephiroth disappears down the short, curved hallway on the left side of the living room that leads to the apartment’s other four rooms.

Genesis has no intention of ever admitting that he enjoys spending time in the vicinity of his friends when they aren’t speaking. The sonorous _tha-thump_ of their heartbeats fill the air with constant vibrations that resonate against his bones and create a familiar cadence that reminds him of the metronome he used for piano practice when he was young. Those were some of the best hours of his childhood.

He’s several pages into act 3 when movement nudges the edge of his awareness: Sephiroth is back, and Genesis lifts his eyes to watch him prowl the perimeter of the living room. He pauses occasionally to inspect a picture, plant, or book.

Genesis observes him from the corner of his eye. One of the things he’d been most surprised to learn when he first met Sephiroth was that the famed “Hero of Wutai” often wandered around others’ living spaces without receiving explicit permission. Genesis has never asked and Sephiroth has never explained why, but he suspects it’s tied into his compulsive need to both familiarize himself with his surroundings and to know as much as possible about everything, including the person whose living space he’s currently occupying.

Strange that he’s doing it now; it’s not like he hasn’t spent hours in here.

Sephiroth stops in front of a large frame that’s home to a collection of photos.

When Genesis realizes he’s read another two pages and Sephiroth hasn’t moved, he glances at Angeal, who is also watching Sephiroth, and receives a raised palm.

“I am attempting to determine how I never realized that Angeal’s favorite color is yellow,” Sephiroth says, without turning.

Genesis glares at the back of his head. _Show-off_.

“I... imagine because I’ve never told you.” Angeal sounds surprised. “I don’t think it’s ever come up in conversation before.”

“I still do not understand how I never noticed.” Sephiroth steps aside and then points to one of the photos. “You are wearing yellow here, and many of your photos have yellow as the focus.”

Genesis closes _LOVELESS_ and sits up to peer at a snapshot of the three of them gathered around a café table wearing—

He covers his eyes. “Angeal, you promised you would destroy every photo of me wearing that atrocity,” he complains, silently vowing anew to never touch flannel again in his life.

“It’s a good photo of us—”

“That’s no excuse,” he mutters into his wrist.

“—and I’m not throwing it away because I didn’t take it.”

He groans. Drops his hand. “Who _cares_ who took it? Destroy the vile thing already!”

“You gave your camera to the waitress,” Sephiroth says.

Genesis doesn’t want to ask but his lip move of their own accord. “You did?”

“I did,” Angeal admits. “She had a good eye, but she couldn’t afford a decent camera of her own, so...” He lifts one shoulder and grins down at his fancy grass. “I let her have mine. It’s not like I couldn’t afford a new one.”

Genesis rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “You’re too nice. You can’t give every stray mongrel that turns pitiful eyes on you your attention—it’s not healthy.”

The sudden roll of laughter from Angel is in direct conflict with the scolding he expects. “What?”

“Speaking of puppies, I’ll have to introduce you to my latest pet.” Angeal’s eyes twinkle with—yes, that’s definitely mischief. What could he possibly have found to spark such impishness?

“Her favorite color was green.”

Genesis's head snaps around so fast that his neck muscles protest, because, non sequitur aside, he’s never heard Sephiroth sound _wistful_ before.

Angeal recovers his voice first. “Whose favorite color was green?”

“The waitress.”

“It... was? I am afraid I don’t remember that.” All traces of laughter are gone from Angeal when he looks Genesis's way. _What’s going on_?

Genesis curls his lip into a sneer. Sephiroth’s probably either showing off his near-perfect memory—again—or he’s entering another brooding phase, but a low drone that thrums to life in the nape of Genesis's neck says it’s neither.

_What, then_?

If he asks, he won’t get a straight answer—for all his social advances, Sephiroth is still rubbish at sharing _feelings_ —which leaves creative manipulation.

“Green?” he asks, propping one elbow on the armrest so he can rest his chin on his palm. “Are you certain?”

Sephiroth is often called _complex_ and _layered_ and _mysterious_ by his female fans, but the truth is much less romantic than they’ve deluded themselves into believing.

Genesis knows a mask when he sees one.

What he can’t figure out is if Sephiroth’s indifferent front is something that Shinra bred into him before they sent him off to war— _Child SOLDIER Fears Nothing_ , claimed every newspaper for months—or if it is Sephiroth’s personal choice to act as though others’ words can’t touch him.

But, oh, they touch him, Genesis thinks, as Sephiroth’s posture shifts from parade rest to attention, and if it weren’t for the sudden gleam of green fire brightening Sephiroth’s already-glowing eyes, he would allow the smirk tugging at the insides of his lips to escape.

Too easy.

“She wore a headband that was a green the same shade as her earrings, which were a similar shape to the leaves of that plant.” Sephiroth points towards the _Tradescantia_ on the coffee table— _Tradescantia zebrina_ , if Genesis isn’t mistaken, and, _Shiva_ , why does he know that? All he remembers about the waitress is that she was curvy in all the right places. Marvelous to know he remembers what matters. “The pen she used to write down our orders had green ink. So did the scripted tattoo around her wrist.”

Angeal responds, something about “convincing evidence” and “remarkable detail,” but Genesis can’t focus—the drone is crawling up the back of his neck and into his hairline: an itch that proves itself immune against his fingertips.

Green, green, why is green important?

A fragment of memory from that day chips off and tumbles through his mind, glittering as it refracts light— _pay attention to me_ —and he scrambles upright, breath lodging in his throat, so he can see the photo again. Ignores his fashion disaster self to focus on—

_Scarves_.

Memories rush back: the mission to Modeoheim and subsequent vacation to Icicle Inn, where they spent whatever time they weren’t either exploring the mountain by ski and snowboard or sleeping—of which they did very little over those four days—in their hotel’s café.

It was, Sephiroth admitted on their third evening as he lifted his wind-blown hair and unwrapped his viridian scarf from around his neck, the longest he’d gone without wearing his custom leather coat since before he was promoted to First.

The same scarf that someone—it must have been their waitress—complimented Sephiroth on because it matched his eyes.

_Green, green, green_.

“Genesis?”

He lifts his gaze from the quatrefoil knotted motif in the center of _LOVELESS_ to find both Angeal and Sephiroth staring at him with identical-in-severity expressions of exasperation, waiting for him to answer a question he has no intention of asking them to repeat.

“Favorite colors are strange if you think about them, aren’t they?” he says instead.

Angeal’s giving him the _what the hell are you on about?_ look that he reserves for the most sacred of occasions, but Sephiroth’s desire to _know_ pushes him a step further. He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

He sounds wary, almost— _it’s not_ what _is said, it’s_ how _it’s said_ —so Genesis shrugs. “Most people don’t wake up one morning and decide that they have a favorite color, right? There’s usually a story behind it.”

“Ah, I see,” Angeal says, even though the furrow bisecting his eyebrows says he doesn’t. Not truly. “Like your love of red, Gen—it’s the most eye-catching color and you constantly seek to be the center of attention.”

The words sting, even though they’re spoken teasingly and contain a truth he’s nurtured others into believing. “Thank you for your insight, Angeal,” he says through gritted teeth.

Sephiroth smirks. “Dare you deny it?”

He opens his mouth to do exactly that—even though the reasons behind his love for crimson are years old and too extensive to explain in a single breath—but he catches himself before the words fall off his tongue and become irredeemable. For once, he can live without being the focus. He waves _LOVELESS_ through the air instead. “It matters not. The point is, there are reasons behind most people’s favorite color, yes?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Sephiroth says, but there is an infinitesimal pause preceding his words that drives the buzzing in the back of Genesis’s head deeper.

_He knows, and he doesn’t want to say_.

Therefore, it is Genesis's duty to prise this information out of him—anything that Sephiroth is reticent to share is something he must know.

“It’s simple enough,” he says, selecting his words with care. “Most people’s favorite colors stem from impressions formed during childhood.”

Even though he’s watching Sephiroth for a reaction, he almost misses the way his pupils dilate to almost-round, because they shrink to tight slits between one blink and the next.

_Tsk, not good enough,_ General.

This is one secret he’s determined to own through any means necessary.

He probably has that look in his eyes that Angeal calls “maniacal”—the one he considers “determined”—and since it won’t do for Sephiroth to realize he’s being maneuvered in a direction he will resist by default, he waves his hand in front of his face, like an illusionist distracting his audience from the real trick, so he can take a moment to smooth the emotion from his expression.

Sephiroth isn’t the only one who knows how to wear a mask.

“Since Angeal has eloquently summed up my preference for all things red, it is my turn to share his story. His first inclination towards yellow manifested when a duckling adopted him when he was three—an inclination that proved itself strong indeed when he announced he was going to marry Hannah, one of our peers, because of her, and I quote, ‘hair like sunbeams.’  ”

Angeal buries his forehead into his palm. “I was seven.”

“And hopelessly in love,” Genesis agrees, cramming his words with as much obnoxious glee as he can around the persistent discomfort in his head. Then he stops to pull up a blank expression that is a few muscle movements off the Shinra-taught “media is always watching” expression. “I don’t know your favorite color, Sephiroth.” He covers the lie with a curious glance up Sephiroth’s uniform, as though he hasn’t studied it in detail before—but certainly didn’t copy. “Black?” _It’s not_.

Sephiroth doesn’t have a chance to open his mouth before Angeal’s head and hand separate. “Your fan club claims it’s silver.”

_Wrong_ , Genesis thinks, and his chest warms with vindication when Sephiroth sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure I want to know why you know that,” he mutters.

Angeal’s smile has the wan quality of someone who is worn down by life itself. “I help train Seconds and Thirds. Do you know how many of them have asked me if silver is actually your favorite color?”

Genesis tries not to let his teeth grind together. They could have had this conversation weeks or even months prior? Not that he cared ten minutes ago, but ire rises all the same. “A better question is if silver is the correct answer or not.”

“For the purpose of my fan club, it is,” Sephiroth says, but a chill drags sharp teeth through the center of Genesis's stomach at the monotone base layer that deadens his words.

_Wrong. That is wrong_.

“But it’s not _your_ favorite color,” Genesis says, aware he’s prying but uncaring, even when Sephiroth’s throat flexes and the muscles in his face freeze. Genesis meets his stare without flinching. There is something here—something huge—and he won’t let this opportunity slip away from him.

After long, silent moments, the layer of ice that resides between Sephiroth’s skin and bones cracks enough for his jaw to move. “My favorite color is green.”

Genesis's lips twitch upwards before he can stop them.

“Really?” Angeal probably doesn’t intend to sound as surprised as he does. He sets his long-spouted watering can on the table. “I had no idea.”

Sephiroth lifts one hand waist-high. “As you said, we have never talked about it, and I never thought to mention it.”

Genesis detects no trace of a lie, but he’s not convinced that Sephiroth hasn’t thought of broaching the subject before. The mono-note hum hasn’t stopped rumbling against the underside of his brain; there is still more information to extract.

“Hmm, well, I suppose that’s better than harboring a secret pink fetish,” he says, voice intentionally bland.

Sephiroth wrinkles his nose—for him, a sign of intense displeasure—but Genesis catches the here-and-gone flicker of mirth in his eyes that doesn’t touch the rest of his face. “People who are obsessed with one color should seek out psychiatric help.”

“Don’t you... think that rather, I don’t know, extreme?” Angeal asks.

One shoulder lifts. “It seemed a better alternative than killing them to prevent their madness from spreading.”

His frost-coated words leave Angeal gaping.

Genesis doesn’t hinder the laughter squeezing his lungs from escaping. “You didn’t truly think he was serious, did you?”

Sunlight and shadows slice in turn across Angeal’s face as he looks between them, but when he sees that Sephiroth is smiling—forced but present—he huffs and rolls his eyes. “Ha-ha, very funny.” He snatches his watering can and heads to the kitchen. “Don’t murder anyone in the fifteen seconds I’m out of the room, all right?”

“Hmm.” Sephiroth shakes his bangs out of gleaming eyes. “No promises, Angeal.”

“Not the answer I’m looking for!”

Genesis grins, and then rubs the base of his neck, where his hair is trying to escape having to lay flat against his skin.

_What is wrong with me_?

No divine words descend from the heavens to answer his silent query, so he’s left to follow his instincts, and his instincts point him to Sephiroth, who is staring, unblinking, at the _Tradescantia_ again.

_Green, green, green_.

He rubs his thumb up and down _LOVELESS_ ’s spine. “So, Sephiroth, what is your tale?”

Sephiroth’s hair whispers a distinct silver note as he turns. “I don’t understand.”

“Behind your love of green.” _Duh_.

“I... would not consider it a ‘love,’  ” Sephiroth says, “although I have noticed that I’m drawn to certain shades of green more than other colors.”

“Only certain shades?” Angeal asks, slipping through the death trap of vines without touching them; then he buries his upper body between the long, scraggly branches of a shrubby tree that Genesis doesn’t recognize so he can reach its planter. “Which ones?”

Sephiroth glances out the window. “I do not see how that is relevant information.”

“Relevant?” Angeal chuckles as he withdraws from the clingy plant with an ease that Genesis has never learned to mimic. “I suppose it isn’t relevant, exactly, but the more we know about each other, the stronger our relationship becomes.”

“What Angeal is trying to say,” Genesis says, because Sephiroth doesn’t look convinced, “is that if he buys you a gift, like a scarf or something equally sentimental, he wants to make sure you won’t hate it.”

Angeal taps the heel of his palm against the back of Genesis's head as he walks by. “That’s not what I meant.”

Genesis shakes his head to loosen any errant flecks of defiling dirt. “Of course you did. You’re just too polite to say it.”

Even though Genesis can’t see him without turning his head, he can hear Angeal’s eyes rolling in his skull, but instead of arguing, he sets about the mind-numbingly tedious task of watering the many little plants on his bookshelves.

Sephiroth’s attention still appears to be angled towards the window, but Genesis knows he’s watching them from the corner of his eye. There’s an extra rigidness to his posture, as though he’s bracing himself to suffer through another round of “irrelevant” questions.

Sharp-edged laughter jabs the sides of Genesis's throat, and he swallows it back. _Happy to oblige_. “Has green always been your favorite color?”

“I do not—” He stops. Blinks. Shifts his weight forward as though he’s going to turn away, but instead, in a series of movements that are too precise, too tidy to be anything less than individual muscle control, settles for crossing his arms. His fingers curl into his elbows. “Yes.”

Genesis's chest throbs, as though there are invisible hooks embedded in his collarbone reeling him in towards some long-guarded secret. Anything that can unsettle Sephiroth enough to goad him into exhibiting physical symptoms of anxiety has to be as dangerous as it is exhilarating, and Genesis relishes this opportunity to prove he’s able to face whatever has Sephiroth upset.

He leans forward, even though he knows he shouldn’t crowd Sephiroth. “Why?” _Why are you so reluctant to talk about this_?

A thunderclap shakes the foundations of Genesis's bones, and the room goes dark for a moment, even though the sun continues to pour over them.

The drone in the base of his skull sharpens until it’s a notch below the piercing keen that sent warnings of _danger_! spitting across his senses like fire when the Griffon attacked those death-fated Thirds. Hot, adrenaline-laced magic surges through his blood, and he has to physically press himself—shoulders, arms, lower back, legs—deeper into the sofa to counteract the ingrained command of _on your feet, SOLDIER_!

No threat. There is— _no_ — _threat_.

Just a man who is lauded as the Hero of Wutai, who has seen more battlefield combat than Genesis and Angeal put together, and whose heart is now beating loud enough that Genesis can’t hear Angeal’s pulse, even though they are three feet apart.

“Sephiroth?” Angeal says, voice sharp with concern.

He dips his head away from them, and his shoulders tighten.

_As though he’s expecting a blow_ , Genesis thinks, with a faint horror unspooling somewhere deep inside him.

“Hey, Seph, relax,” Angeal says, using a modified version of his _trust-me-everything-is-fine_ voice that he’s coaxed more than one traumatized cadet back into reality with. “We can drop the conversation if you want us to.”

“I’m fine,” Sephiroth whispers. At least, Genesis thinks that’s what he says; the words are lost somewhere between strands of silver hair and the ongoing bass reverberations of a stressed heart. Without raising his head, he meets first Angeal’s eyes and then Genesis's, who thinks he might have made a mistake in pushing the conversation where he has.

“You’re sure?” Angeal asks, softer now: the embodiment of compassion.

Sephiroth draws a deep breath, and then lifts his chin. “I apologize. I have several memories from my childhood that I... would rather forget.”

_Don’t we all_ , Genesis thinks, and pushes away the niggling admonishment that childhoods are not comparable.

Angeal makes an understanding noise in the back of his throat. “Please accept my sincerest apologies. We didn’t mean to trigger anything.”

“I apologize as well,” Genesis says—only because manners have been bred into him since he could crawl.

Sephiroth tips one brow towards the ground in answer: an apology that isn’t. His lips narrow into a bloodless line and his skin appears to thin, as though the ice-encased shards of bone beneath are trying to reach the muggy air.

Genesis comes to the revelation that his insatiable curiosity might be the cause of an unrepairable fissure in their camaraderie.

But then Sephiroth speaks. “I was unaware at the time, but I realize now that I had an unorthodox childhood, even though I did not spend my formative years locked inside a laboratory like the rumors that circulate SOLDIER’s ranks claim.”

Genesis has wondered about those.

“I did not receive the same freedom to express the personal opinions that most children are encouraged to develop and verbalize, but I learned early on that no one could prevent the growth of opinions if they didn’t know about them.”

The back of Genesis's throat tightens, and he shoves thoughts that are supposed to be long-buried back under the stack of dusty memories they crawled out from beneath.

Angeal has gone rigid, and Genesis recognize the signs of a full-blown tirade, but Sephiroth shakes his head—only once, but with enough force that his hair falls over the front of his shoulders. “Don’t waste your time on anger. You cannot change what’s happened.”

“I know that,” Angeal says, voice gone flat and cold, “but friends get pissed off on one another’s behalf, even if the offenses are years old.”

“I... appreciate your dedication to our friendship.” A fraction of the tension in Sephiroth’s shoulders dissolves, but he still looks carved from ice that no amount of direct sunlight will be able to melt. “Unfortunately, I did not learn to guard my thoughts soon enough to prevent some opinions from becoming... tainted.” His eyes darken, and Genesis ignores the way his flesh prickles beneath his jacket.

Angeal proves the depths of his courage when he murmurs, “Such as color preferences.”

Sephiroth blinks, and Genesis is left with the impression that it’s his version of a flinch. “Yes. After that, I was discouraged from thinking of color as anything more than a tool, and I pretended to conform, even though I hated the sterile environment I lived in and the black and gray uniforms I wore.”

His lips flicker upwards, but the movement is all wrong: it’s mordant, as though the motion is being carved into his iced-over face by the caustic edge of his memories—and Genesis is certain that is what is happening. “I even hated my hair for its lack of pigment. When I looked in the mirror, the only scrap of color I saw looking back at me was that of my—”

“Eyes,” Sephiroth and Angeal say together.

_Eyes_ , Genesis thinks as the word bounces off waxy leaves and off sheets of glass and metal, until the air is full of nothing but echoes of the whisper-scream. Yes. Of course. Everything fits. That’s one more secret of Sephiroth’s mysterious life he can lay claim to.

He wishes he could forget every word.

_All that awaits you is a somber morrow..._

“Seph, I...” Angeal lifts a hand, as though he can pluck invisible phrases to make everything _right_ , everything _better_ , from the strained oxygen around them. “I wish we could do something.”

_Leave me out of this_. Genesis has no intention of throwing himself into this cesspit of emotional trauma. Half the reason he’s in Midgar and not Banora is to escape different-but-identical circumstances.

“Do not trouble yourself over it.” Sephiroth shakes his hair over his shoulders in a series of brittle micro-shrugs, as though movements any larger will leave him shattered. “It happened many years ago, and normally it does not bother me. I am not entirely certain why it affected me as it did today.”

They lapse into a silence that is anything but quiet as their tumultuous thoughts are broadcasted via heart rates that have abandoned their harmonious rhythm to perform discordant, percussive solos.

Genesis shoves the urge to scream into the bottom of his lungs. There is too much stress and emotion strung through their bodies; they need to get out of this abruptly too-small apartment—now—or he suspects more than the plants will suffer.

He came to Angeal’s apartment to relax, not engage in another theater of war strewn with emotional shrapnel. And the other two aren’t moving, so it looks like they’re leaving it up to him.

“Well. This has become altogether too morbid.” Genesis doesn’t let himself react when Angeal’s appalled glare slaps the side of his head, and sweeps his arms out, mindful this time of the overly affectionate vine. “  ‘My friend, the fates are cruel. There are no dreams, no honor remains.’  ”

“Genesis, now isn’t the time,” Angeal scolds.

Of course it isn’t, but it has served its intended purpose: the bitter chill honing Sephiroth’s features Masamune-sharp blunts until he doesn’t look like he’s about to slice himself open if he moves his jaw the wrong way. His arms don’t uncross, and although his fingers stop trying to crush his elbows, Genesis can still hear the heavy, thudding tension of Sephiroth’s pulse: a subsonic boom that resonates in time with the pounding in his own head.

Genesis's molars snap together. Not good enough.

So he shoves himself to his feet and announces, “Angeal, unless you wish to defile the Buster Sword, stop playing in the dirt like a child and wash up.”

“Excuse me?”

He spins towards the door without acknowledging the offense in Angeal’s voice; he’ll get over it. “Like Sephiroth said, I am going to be assigned to Wutai soon, and one can never get too much practice in.”

“Genesis,” Angeal says, elongating his name just like his mother does when she’s suspicious, “are you feeling all right?”

_Ifrit, Angeal, work with me_.

He struggles to keep his fit of pique from transferring through his jacket, mindful that both men are watching him with flesh-piercing intensity. “I am bored, and I am tempted to take it out on your plants.” He allows a Fira to ignite in his palm to prove his point, but he underestimates his own agitation—flames leap into the air and a blast of heat shoves his hair away from his face.

_Damnit_.

“Genesis!”

Instinct takes over: he cuts the flow of magic, blinks smarting, watering eyes, and, taking advantage of the privacy of having his back turned, bares his teeth.

Of all the times to lose control of his magic—as though events haven’t backfired enough already—it has to be when Sephiroth is in the room. His stare, cold and calculating once more, presses between Genesis's shoulder-blades, so different from Angeal’s silent but warm concern.

Aside from a raised temperature in his face that’s as much due to embarrassed fury as the explosion of fire, he doesn’t feel injured, so, with a steadying breath, he shoves the tangled nest of brewing, raw emotions he doesn’t want prodded beneath an expression of indifference. These days, it takes but a moment before he’s ready to face the others.

Sephiroth’s hands have released his arms in favor of curing into loose fists at his sides, and his head is up, glinting eyes prodding for weak spots in Genesis's mask.

_Poke all you want—you’ll never break through_.

“You all right?” Angeal’s upper body is tilted forward as though he’s about to run towards him. Really? Does he look like a tot who needs coddling?

He sweeps his hand through his hair and smirks. “  ‘My soul, corrupted by vengeance, hath endured torment to find the end of the journey.’  ”

“Act four,” Sephiroth says, with a distracted air that sounds like he’s answering by rote, but, as an experienced thespian himself, Genesis prides himself on his ability to identify when others are acting—and Sephiroth is.

_Concerned, are we?_

“I’m flattered.” He dips into a shallow bow that is directed at neither of them so he can tighten his mask over the swelling irritation that’s mixing with a faint, warm pleasure and straining at the edges of his lungs.

“No, you’re weird,” Angeal says, still eying him as though expecting him to keel over or something equally dramatic—and he would consider it, if the situation were dire enough—but, _finally_ , grabs a towel and wipes his hands off.

“You wound me, Angeal,” he exclaims, holding a hand to his chest as he reaches for his sword with the other.

Sephiroth hums, a low sound in the back of his throat that’s his equivalent to a chuckle when he isn’t up to putting the full effort forth. “You have survived worse.”

_We all have_.

But he’s trying to lighten the mood, not drag it down into their own personal hells again, so he raises his sword’s hilt towards the ceiling. “You know what we haven’t done in ages?”

“Do enlighten us,” Sephiroth says, voice so dry it crackles in Genesis's ears.

He shoves a flare of irritation down. “It’s been forever since our last duel.”

Angeal’s groan and mutter of, “This is a bad idea,” is superseded by the way Sephiroth’s head turns towards him, eyes finally brightening with interest. “The training room on level forty-nine has just been upgraded with three new simulations.”

He grins. New simulations are exciting. But... “Only three? That training room has been closed for _weeks_.”

Sephiroth hum-laughs again. “Withhold judgment until you see them. One is the entire Junon seafront. To scale.”

_What_? Genesis has to adjust his hold on his sword’s hilt to keep the blade from crashing to the floor.

Angeal pauses in the midst of reaching for the Buster Sword. “The entire Junon seafront? That’s... huge.” Even he looks intrigued now.

“Did they include the Mako Cannon?” Genesis asks, forcing himself to speak through tight lungs.

The corner of Sephiroth’s mouth lifts. “Indeed.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” he decides. He’s always thought it would be the perfect location for a fight but hasn’t been able to prove it, since Shinra would never authorize an actual duel up there.

Angeal finishes settling the Buster on his back, but he’s looking back at his table as though the plants have wrapped their clingy leaves and stems around him and are calling him back into their dirty, bug-filled clutches.

Like hell is that happening. If they don’t leave now, they never will, so Genesis grabs Angeal’s wrist and drags him towards the door. “Your plants will still be here when you get back.”

“Yes, but I wonder if I should—”

“ _No_.” Genesis shoves him out the door, and is only successful because Angeal doesn’t put true effort into stopping him, but he’ll take what he can get. The sooner he’s standing on the Mako Cannon, the happier he’ll be. If he properly channels the maelstrom of emotion flaying the insides of his ribcage to shreds, he won’t have any trouble beating Sephiroth this time. He wouldn’t have lost their last duel if those rocks hadn’t crumbl—

Sephiroth isn’t following them.

And he left _LOVELESS_ on the sofa.

_Idiot_.

Fingers spasming around his rapier’s hilt, he ducks his head back into the apartment, inhaling to call Sephiroth out on his tardiness and is there any chance he can bring _LOVELESS_ , but the words shrivel to bitter ash under his tongue. Sephiroth is down on one knee trailing his fingers—ungloved—along the _Tradescantia_ ’s variegated leaves.

_The only scrap of color I saw looking back at me was that of my eyes_.

Leaves that are the same color and pattern as his eyes.

Angeal has berated him more than once about his dishonorable actions as he seeks an edge over Sephiroth, but he needn’t worry this time: Genesis is too aware of what lines that shouldn’t be crossed look like.

That’s why he whirls away from the private moment, drone rising in a cold swell from its almost-dormant state against his spine to throb around the base of his ears, and wonders if there is any way he can apologize to Sephiroth without having to speak the words.

_Fingers and leaves and eyes and green_.

Perhaps he would appreciate the _Tradescantia_ ; he seems rather taken with it. Genesis turns to ask Angeal for his opinion, but he hesitates too long—Sephiroth’s soft, deliberate footsteps approach from behind them, and there’s no way to keep a conversation private when he’s less than twenty feet away, so he will have to mention it later when they’re alone.

By silent agreement, they wait for Sephiroth to join them, and Genesis has to take a moment to steady himself before he can meet Sephiroth’s eyes.

He doesn’t expect Sephiroth to hold _LOVELESS_ out.

“You didn’t know,” he says, nods to Angeal, and then turns to lead them down the hallway.

Genesis and Angeal exchange a glance, but follow Sephiroth without speaking. They will revisit this, Genesis knows, but not today. They need time. Perhaps after he returns from Wutai.

 

_[coda]_

 

Genesis intends to walk with Angeal back to his apartment after they’ve worked the stress out of their systems and discuss the possible repercussions of gifting Sephiroth with his own _Tradescantia zebrina_. Instead, he exits a destroyed training room with his head high and hot blood soaking his shoulder.

He destroys everything that day: his chance to become a hero, his favorite copy of _LOVELESS_ , and the luxury of having all the time in the world to spend in the company of his best friends.


End file.
